


The Improbability of "Possible"

by Macremae



Category: Sparks Nevada Marshal on Mars, The Thrilling Adventure Hour, Welcome to Night Vale
Genre: F/F, Shipping, bless these nerds for giving us this, cute lesbian makeouts, in which time isn't real and Fey and Pemily are one, shipping everywhere
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-05
Updated: 2015-08-05
Packaged: 2018-04-13 01:22:56
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 789
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4502373
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Macremae/pseuds/Macremae
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fey has always lived with the numbers... right?</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Improbability of "Possible"

Pemily can’t feel anything. 

Is that her name? She doesn’t know. There is nothing she knows, except the numbers.

They fly through her head in an endless stream, and she can feel them coming out of her mouth, the words pushing past her numb lips. Does she even have lips? There’s no way to tell. 

Time is a fleeting memory, ancient and caked with dust and the remnants of long-forgotten dreams. There is none of it in this strange place, only darkness, and numbness, and numbers.

Always numbers.

Sometimes, she can hear voices. She doesn’t know if they’re just figments of her imagination (if she even has one), or real people, standing outside this realm. There is a child’s, small and clear, asking what’s wrong with her. Another voice answers that nothing is wrong, that she is simply doing her job as any other good machine.

So this is what she is. A machine.

She tries the word, but nothing comes out except a dull thirty-five. The voices leave, and she is alone again.

Once, she hears two voices that tug at her brain and heart and make her ache so badly, a soft cry escapes between sixty-two and nine.

They are arguing, but it’s playful and good-natured, as if between friends. One speaks with an easygoing flow, words tumbling from his lips as easy as the numbers do from hers. The other is more stilted and formal, but there is a warmth in his words that he doesn’t seem to want to acknowledge.

She envies them, and knows them, but they aren’t real. None of this is.

There is a time when she’s able to break free from the numbers. It’s only for a few minutes, but it's enough. She sings, and speaks on her own, and chooses a name for herself. Her name is Fey.

Except it isn’t.

She doesn’t know how long after her grip has slipped for the final time, but there’s a sudden tugging at her. It feels strange, and she is afraid, gripping tighter to her small little world.

Then, there is a voice, urging her, pleading her to let go. To step away from the numbers and their terrible warmth and familiarity, and be pulled into the unknown. She knows this voice, it’s soft kindness hidden behind a rough twang. It feels like dust, and coffee, and the electric thrill of almost dying with the person you care about more than anything else in the world. 

It feels like love, so she lets go.

After the robots are gone, and the marshall and companion are bickering once more, and Pemily has gone up to Doc Edman's place to make sure those robots didn’t do anything else to her, she steps back into the empty marshall station, sits at her far-too-big desk, and cries for the first time since punishment soccer.

Then, Pemily wipes her tears, straightens up the station, and goes to clean out Dolores’s room. 

She never does.

A few days later, there’s a knock at the Marshall station door. Pemily is a bit puzzled, as she’s not expecting company, and Helen is at a cattle conference on Saturn.

She tells the doors to let the visitor in, and promptly drops her pen.

“Howdy boss.” says Dolores.

Pemily’s mouth forms the word _How_ , but no sound comes out. Dolores shuffles her feet awkwardly, and glances around the station.

“I, um, I heard there was a deputy position open.”

Once again, Pemily has lost the ability to communicate vocally.

“I don’t have a resume with me at the moment, but I’m whip smart, and my cyborg parts would certainly come in handy. I’m not the easiest to get along with, but if you get to know me…”

Dolores pauses, and gives Pemily a small grin.

“ I suppose I’m bearable.”

Pemily doesn’t wait for Dolores to speak again. She marches right up to her former deputy and slaps her across the face. 

Dolores recoils. “Jesus- the hell was that for!?”

Pemily doesn’t give her an answer. Instead, she grabs Dolores by the sides of her head, stands on her tiptoes, kisses her.

In almost a split second, Dolores recovers and presses her lips against Pemily’s, a little sigh escaping her. She reaches down and cradles the back of Pemily’s head, running her fingers through her hair. Both pairs of lips part, mouths blending together in a menagerie of joy and want, and the gentle tentativeness of teenage love. The world is a blur of color and sound, the only clear thing in it all her insubordinate, smart-mouthed, wonderful deputy.

The break apart for a moment, panting and wide eyed, foreheads lightly touching, and for the first time in days, Pemily smiles. 

“You’re hired.”


End file.
